


Head Under Water

by butterflyweb



Category: Big Bang (Band)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Suicide, random k-pop guest stars, wristcutters!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:27:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflyweb/pseuds/butterflyweb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Welcome to your death</i>, Seunghyun thinks, shaky hands lighting cigarettes, and chain-smokes on the sidewalk as he tries to get his bearings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Head Under Water

It feels heavy in his palm.

His fingers are trembling, thumb pressing against the barrel, the cold metal biting into his skin. The corner of the bed sinks under his weight, old springs creaking on a mattress stained with come and fitted with unclean sheets. They’re not bound to improve in the next few minutes.

It brings a smile to his lips that’s more like a grimace, fitting his hand around the grip, finger sliding to rest against the trigger. Another hand comes up to wipe at his face, scrubbing over cheeks marred with salt. Jesus. Jesus, fuck.

He shudders, gripping the gun and pushed himself back to sit against the headboard, the cheap wood digging into the small of his back. Legs splayed out in front of him, he looks into the mirror opposite the bed. He doesn’t even look like himself, face drawn and lips thin. Hair greasy with three days unwash, and eyes bloodshot.

He lifts the gun, pointing it as his reflection.

“Bang,” he whispers, and flinches.

Closing his eyes tight, he hesitates, choking down the lump that seems to be blocking his air, wonders if he’ll just strangle instead. Lifts the gun, sets it against his lips, hollows his cheeks around the barrel. It tastes like ash and death and hard metal and he takes it out, swearing under his breath as his eyes prick.

_Fuck. Fuck, for once in your life, have some fucking balls,_ he hisses in his head, lifting the gun with a shaking hand.

Presses the muzzle to his scalp, cold against his skin.

_Bang_ , he thinks, and pulls.

*

He wakes in a bed, a different bed, with starched sheets that scratch his cheek and a throbbing headache.

Swallowing in a dry throat, he sits up, almost hesitant in the empty space. He’s still wearing his clothes, not a hospital gown, and there’s no IV. No nurse.

He hesitates, lifting his hand with something akin to fear. Brushes his hand against his temple, feeling no bandage, no gauze, no tape. What the hell? Did he miss and pass out? Was it…did he just fucking dream it? He pushes his fingers back further, dread curling in his stomach and when his fingertips find a hole he leans over and vomits onto the sterile white floor.

Wheezing, he digs his fingers into the itchy cotton, bent over and forehead pressed to the edge of the cot, still heaving dry coughs.

“That looked rough,” a bright voice comments lightly, and he jerks, equilibrium giving him another turn into nausea.

“What—what’s going on, why—“ His voice comes out shaken and raw, and the young man’s smile turns a little gentler, a little less bright and a little more understanding.

He hands him a glass of water that he seems to pull out of nowhere. “Here. Drink this.” Sits down on the edge of the bed, almost perched.“My name is Junsu. I’m here to welcome you.”

“Seunghyun,” he gets out, hesitating before sipping at the water. It tastes metallic.

Junsu smiles and it edges towards blinding, as if it pains him to keep it dimmed.“I know. Choi Seunghyun. Seoul, South Korea. We expected you.”

Seunghyun feels a chill go down his spine. “We? Is this…” He bites his lip on the question. Knows better.

A shake of the head, the corners of Junsu’s mouth still upturned. “No, it isn’t Heaven. But it’s not Hell either.” A hesitation.

“Drink up. And sorry about the taste. You’ll get used to it.”

*

It’s not Heaven. It’s not Hell. It’s not Purgatory.For all intents and purposes, it’s home.

Fate has always had a cruel sense of irony.

Junsu had given him a wad of bills, “to get on your feet” and a light push out the door. _Welcome to your death_ , Seunghyun thinks, shaky hands lighting cigarettes, and chain-smokes on the sidewalk as he tries to get his bearings. Watches people walk by with cricks in their neck too violent to be natural, women like skeletons and a man missing half his face. Sucks down nicotine and keeps walking and tries to keep the contents of his stomach from making a second appearance.

_A bar_ , Seunghyun notes blearily, flicking ash to the bed. He needs alcohol and lots of it. It never erased his problems back there, but he needs an option to cling to before he goes crazy.

He can’t get a seat on the bus, crushed against the door and the sweaty body of an enormous man. Steps outside to the rain and remembers Junsu’s rueful smile. _“It’s like Life. Only…nothing ever quite goes right.”_

Pushing wet hair out of his eyes, he keeps them trained on the floor as he slips inside the first bar he sees, sliding into the corner of a booth and pressing his face into his hands. Keeps his fingers curled in, afraid to touch the side of his skull. Can’t quite think straight.

A beer is set in front of him on a paper coaster, sleeves stretching back to reveal cut wrists. Seunghyun’s stomach rolls.

“Let me know if you need something different,” the tall boy tells him, a fucking model if Seunghyun’s ever seen one and he wonders what tragedy the kid felt was worth it. Keeps silent and nods instead of asking.

He people watches and drowns his sorrows and thinks it fucking figures when the beer is flat.

Letting out a shuddering breath, he lifts his head to find eyes watching him back.

It isn’t the steady gaze that unsettles him, nor the loud clothes or the way he holds his cigarette almost like a chick. But rather it’s the way heisn’t disfigured, the way his skin is clear and his lips pink and his wrists bare of telling scars.

“You’re new,” the man notes, places his cigarette between his lips and slides off the stool. Flops down into Seunghyun’s booth.

“They told you why you’re here, right?”

Seunghyun sits back, taken aback by the sudden proximity and the probing question. “Yeah. Cause I…killed myself.”

The younger man makes a face that only serves to underscore the childishness of his features, flicking ash onto the table top.

“One of the angels tell you that? Bullshit, man. They sugarcoat everything, it’s how they’re made.” He lifts his chin. “You’re here cause you fucked up. Cause you weren’t a good person. Good people go to heaven. Bad people go to hell. Cowards come here.”

It makes Seunghyun start, makes the people around them go silent and he can feel eyes bore into what’s left of the back of his head.

The man-child bares uneven teeth. “Did you hear what I said? You’re a coward.”

Seunghyun swallows thickly around surprise and something like shame and stares. “Then…so are you,” is all he can think to say. The effect is instantaneous, the man slumping down in his seat and letting out a sharp bark of a laugh. And then again, knees coming upand shoulders down as if he’d been punched in the gut.

“Yeah,” he guffaws, “I am.” Another harsh laugh. “You fucking prick. No wonder you blew your head off.”

He drops his cigarette into Seunghyun’s beer and slides out of the seat, storming out of the bar in a mess of loud, bright color and haphazard patterns.

A blonde man laughs awkwardly from two booths down, kohl around his eyes and piercings riddled in his ears.He chews on the edge of a cigarette and offers a shrug.

“That’s Jiyong. And I…wouldn’t put too much stock in anything he says.”

 

*

 

Night falls too fast too be convenient and he realizes that he’s lost in the city of eternal limbo and he hasn’t got a flat, a friend or a future prospect for either. At the moment, his choices seem stuck between sleeping in the gutter or what passes for a motel in this place and the latter reminds him a little too much of how he got here.

And so he stretches out on a park bench, smoking cigarettes from a pack that never seems to run out, staring up at the one thing that seems to be faultless in this place. Picks out the constellations. Finds hundreds of them, thousands, ones he doesn’t even know the names of and others he makes up and somehow…somehow it’s worse than all of Seoul’s foggy, polluted nights because it just fits. It fits that the only thing bearable is something out of his reach.

Seunghyun wakes with a stiff neck and a burn on his middle finger from the cigarette, scrubbing sleep out of his eyes with the heel of his hand. Thinks this is the second day of the rest of his death and that he best get on with it.

 

*

 

He bartends. Mixes uncomplicated drinks for complicated people, learns names that way. Faces and CODs and settles into something like a life. Sleeps on the floor behind the bar until the owner catches him and then he’s the proud renter of a flat that’s more like a closet on the third floor.

He knows that Jaejoong was electrocuted and Yunho too much of a hero the first time around, too much of a romantic the second. Learns the model, Changmin, has a razor wit to match the cuts and that he’s stupid in love with the former. He meets jumpers and cutters and kids who drank the punch. Meets sad-eyed girls who still wear their promise rings even when they cut into the skin.

It’s numb, but it becomes familiar. Like the warm comfort of socks, something you don’t think about until your feet are chilled. It becomes bearable. After all, everybody’s nice enough. What’s left to bitch about when you’re already dead?

Plenty, if you’re the man in front of him.

He sets a half-hearted martini with too-salty olives in front of a black shirt under white suspenders, noting the purple skinnies and askew hat with a snort. He’d heard ‘fashion student’ tossed around as a theorybut he’s sticking to his own assessment of color-blind short bus material.

It’s not like he’ll be corrected. Nobody knows Jiyong and the kid likes it that way. Almost as much as he likes to complain.

“This martini fucking sucks,” he mutters, eating the olives and making a face. He hasn’t touched the drink.

“Too bad, man,” Seunghyun shrugs, cleaning a glass. “Should’ve thought about that before you…sorry, what was it this week?”

The scowl he receives could peel paint.

“Seppuku.”

_Jaejoong laughs a little, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand. “You see the thing with Jiyong….he’s kind of…a liar. You’ll see what I mean.”_

“Seppuku, right. Wouldn’t have pegged you for a Japanese, _Jiyong_.”

“Fuck you,” he mutters under his breath, scratching at pretty, pale, unmarked wrists and Seunghyun thinks pills. Thinks auto-erotic play gone bad. Thinks…that it’s ten kinds of fucked up that Jiyong’s wadrobe is the man’s sole bright spot.

He ignores the retort, commonplace by now and passes a virgin Cuba Libre, diet with lime, to a kid with his namesake. Lee. Twenty. Alcohol poisoning.

Returns to fill up Jiyong’s drink even though he knows the kid has jetted and pockets the five even though he knows they’re not allowed to take tips.

 

*

On weekends, as if there is such a thing in a place like this, he explores. Kicks rocks along the dusty road and chain smokes, eyes squinting against the bright of the sun. He wonders if his skin will burn, if he’ll ever reach the end if he just keeps walking. If there are glass walls on the otherside of this stretch of dessert, like the whole thing is a terrirum for the gods to observe them in.

Whether it’s because he doesn’t really _want_ to know, deep down, or whether his legs are too tired or the scenery too limited—he never singles out a reason—he doesn’t test it. Instead just turns back from the same point each time, a weather-beaten stop sign at the edge of the desert. Turns and heads back to the life that’s not really a life and the ghosts who live it beside him.

*

He’s not quite sure how Changmin and Yunho can be happy like they are. How there isn’t some greater force intervening, reminding them this is _punishment_. Penance. Wondering when the proverbial anvil will drop and their hard-won contentment will be obliterated.

Seunghyun watches from over the bar counter, cleans a glass and darting inconspicuous glances at the two lovers until his vision is blocked by a smirking Jaejoong.

His face burns, caught out,and he turns his back, stacking the glasses on the shelf and steadfastly ignoring the other man.

Jaejoong speaks into his tequila sunrise, voice muffled by the glass.

“We all watch them. It’s a rare thing in a place like this.”

Something inside of Seunghyun aches and he wonders who decides who gets to be happy and when, if ever, it’ll be his turn.

*

He’s on his fifth cigarette (no need to worry about cancer when you’re dead) when he hits the stop sign, only today, he lingers. Stares off into the distance, the burning miles of sand and dunes and muses over the consequence of losing himself there. Endlessly wandering.

Movement catches his eye and Seunghyun squints, peering over the burning end of his cigarette and out into the glare. He can make out the shape of a figure amongst the brush and rock and burnt umber and can’t help but hesitate,ash dropping to his feet.

_Stop_ , the sign authorizes in bold, authorative letters. _Dead End._

He flicks his cigarette to the ground, inhaling his own sweat and the oppressive sun and steps over the line drawn in the sand.

Jiyong is sprawled on his back, arms spread in supplication. In defeat. Hat pulled low over his eyes and wearing enough clothing to make Seunghyun’s skin itch under the cruel sun.

“Go away.”

He doesn’t, just crouches beside skinny, outstretched limbs and follows the beads of sweat that soak dark hair.

A noisy sigh from beneath the brim of the ballcap. “If you’re not going to leave, then give me a fucking cigarette.”

He snorts, holding out the pack as Jiyong sits up , drawing one free and arching an eyebrow under the brim of his cap, expectant.Seunghyun strikes a match—lighters are hard to come by—and Jiyong leans in, the tip flaring after a moment.

They sit in silence for a long minute, Jiyong smoking and Seunghyun watching it rise against the painfully blue sky that would be more comforting had it a single cloud. He speaks, lips chapped and mouth dry, eyes stinging from the sand the wind carries.

“How did you kill yourself, Jiyong?”

The other man, not missing a beat, retorts around the cigarette. “Kicked a lion in the balls.”

*

It becomes a pattern, a bit of normalacy to cling to in a place so strange. Every week, he steps past the sign and into the wild brush. Shares a cigarette and listens to Jiyong bitch and lie and complain, clothing eternally colorful, mouth downturned. He has a nasty sense of humour and laughs loud, even when it’s bitter. He hates this place and that, that Seunghyun can understand.

“How can you sit like that, like some fucking frog?” Jiyong scowls, lotus-style on the sand,nodding his head toward Seunghyun’s crouch.

He shrugs. “It’s comfortable. How can you sit on that bony ass of yours?”

A single-finger salute. “Suck me, pretty boy.”

It startles a laugh out of him, but never a smile (not here), and something hits him like a proverbial truck, warm and sticky and in the center of his chest.

“Jiyong, how did you die?”

A twist of full lips, clever brown eyes sliding to him from under a fringe of dark hair.

“I broke my heart.”

*

He’s brushing his teeth—thrirty five times right, thirty five times left, the only thing he’s ever been anal about—when the knock comes, startling his toothbrush out of his mouth to clatter in the sink. Fishing it out, he spits and rinses, hesitant as he leaves the tiny bathroom and goes to the door, hand reaching for the knob.

Pauses before remembering the dead have nothing to fear and turns.

Blinks in something like surprise, something like confusion when he finds a splash of orange and a checked ball cap on the other side of the threshold, the dim lighting making Jiyong look younger, if possible.

The other man won’t meet his eyes.

“Jae said you were staying up here. I need a cig.”

Seunghyun bites his tongue against telling him he could’ve just bought his own, nods to the pack on the dresser. “Help yourself.”

 

Jiyong wanders in as if he has all the time in the world, as if it’s his flat and he belongs here, fishing a cigarette out of the pack and lighting up. Sits on the window ledge.

“Aren’t you gonna ask?” His voice sounds almost hollow. Defeated.

Seunghyun sits on the on the edge of the bed, shirtless and rubbing inexplicably sweaty palms on the knees of his sweats.

“How did you kill yourself?”

Jiyong closes his eyes,lets out a long exhale, smoke disappating into the air. Doesn’t reply. He stands, walking around the room, looking everywhere except at Seunghyun.

“Did you fuck guys, when you were alive?”

“No.” And it’s easy to say, because it’s the truth, eyes fixed on Jiyong’s skinny shoulders and the tattoos that peek out from the inside of his arms.He watches those shoulders tense, listens as breath exhales harshly. In frustration. In disappointment. Seunghyun swallows in a dry throat.

“But I’m not alive anymore, am I.”

Sharp eyes turn to him, considering. Assessing. Fathomless behind inky black and he wants to know this man. Wants to crack his code and understand the pieces that make him tick and he wants to know, wants to be the _one_ who knows because he thinks both of them need that.

Jiyong flicks the cigarette out the window, moving to where Seunghyun sits on the bed and straddles his waist, hands on his shoulders.

“Why’d you kill yourself, Seunghyun?” Jiyong murmurs, close to his ear the way a lover might whisper sweet nothings, his bony fingers digging into Seunghyun's skin. His settle awkwardly at the other man's hips, too thin, just like the rest of him.

“Owed money to loan sharks,” Seunghyun replies, hands fisting a little in an oversized tee. “Lost big at the blackjack tables and got scared. What they’d do to me. Took the cowards way out. Isn’t that what you said?”

Arms wind themselves around his neck.

“Yeah. Well. I lie a lot, if you haven’t noticed.”

And just like that, something clicks in Seunghyun’s head, shifting them until he has Jiyong against the bed, arms and legs caging him in. Jiyong’s jaw is tight and his features schooled in a glare, a challenge and finally, Seunghyun thinks, he’s man enough to rise to the occasion.

“Why did you kill yourself, Jiyong?”

He snorts and the sound is almost violent. Angry. ““No one ever asks that, you know. The why. Just the how.”

He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t lie and Seunghyun presses his luck, fitting a hand behind his head, palm curling at the nape of his neck.

“Why do you lie about it? About how you did it?”

Jiyong barks out a laugh, full of anger and pain and shoves at Seunghyun’s shoulder almost desperately, trying to get out from underneath him.

“Because maybe if I’d done it _those_ ways, _asshole_ , it would’ve fucking stuck!”

Seunghyun kisses him.

Slides a hand up his shirt, taking advantage of the sudden stillness of the other man, tangling his fingers in his hair until a mouth opens under his and hands clutch at his back. He’s in over his head, he’s never done this with a man before, no matter what he’d thought about some nights, under his sheets, and he’s not sure he can count on Jiyong to guide him.

A leg hooks around his hips, dragging him down and forcing their bodies close, a wet tongue sliding against his as they move and rut against each other on sheer instinct, through clothes and insecurities. Jiyong is desperation under smooth, warm skin, kissing with too much teeth and dimly, Seunghyun thinks he can taste blood but it doesn’t matter. Something so base, so animal, and it’s the first time he’s felt alive since he pulled the trigger.

“Fuck, Jiyong,” he exhales, heat in his belly, feeling trapped in stilfing cotton, one of the other man’s hands slipping down his pants. “Hang on—“

“No,” Jiyong bites out, and it’s a plea, his fingers tangled too tight in Seunghyun’s hair, ghosting past the bullet wound, his last tie to that life.

“Okay,” he breathes, hiding his face against the other man’s neck, pushing against him and listening to him gasp, short of breath. It’s almost as good as a smile.

“Okay.”

*

Jiyong doesn’t tell him. There are no grand confessions that night, no pieces of him surrended but the important ones and Seunghyun thinks he can wait for the rest.The springs dig into his back in the flimsy mattress, crickets chirp too loudly outside his window and Jiyong kicks in his sleep but it’s inconsequential. Everything’s a little bit worse here, true, but they’ve all known what a _lot_ worse is like and it’s enough to leave them grateful.

Because maybe it’s not punishment, in the end, Seunghyun thinks, running his fingers through Jiyong’s damp, butchered hair, smirking a little as he scowls in his sleep. Maybe it’s not a cosmic joke or a last laugh from irony and maybe it’s true that the gods play happiness a little close to the vest.

But maybe, just maybe, they’re a little more free with second chances.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/g_top/14023.html#cutid1). Verse is borrowed from the film Wristcutters: A Love Story.


End file.
